


Gospel of The Living

by lalazee



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Blood and Gore, Character Death, Character Study, Characters Added Later Chapters, Comedy, Dark Comedy, Drama, Dramedy, F/M, Horror, M/M, NSFW later chapters, Pairings Added Later Chapters, Romance, Slow Burn, Thriller, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 05:11:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6690985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalazee/pseuds/lalazee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some time in our future, zombies rampage the earth. Athelstan survives his days by hiding. That is, until he meets Ragnar. Only then does he start living.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>“It would almost certainly be in your best interest to introduce yourself.”</i></p>
<p>  <i>Athelstan chewed the inside of his cheek and considered his options.</i></p>
<p>  <i>It turned out that being trapped under a table, surrounded by drunken ruffians didn’t leave many options.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Gospel of The Living

**Author's Note:**

> I am joining this fandom. I am going to join it muchly. Be ready! And feel free to comment!

There had been a time when Athelstan had loved the din of a storm. He could curl up in his old, cracked leather chair with a sketchbook and a steaming cup of tea, and while away the midnight hours, drawing and listening to the rain.

Blue shadows, blue ink of pen, blue noise rather than white. He had treasured those moments.

Now, rain brought anxiety, fear, a cold sweat trickling icy veins down his spine.

Because when it rained, you couldn’t hear Them running.

The low, endless thrum of English summer rain drowned out the footsteps of the dead. You’d never hear them coming, until it was too late.

Fortunately, Athelstan had made it his life’s work to remain relatively invisible. The skill – if it could be called that – had not served him particularly well during the Years of the Living, as he thought of it. But now, it was a gift from God.

Which led him to this place, hiding away in an abandoned pub, listening to the night.

The dead were always most active in the dark.

Athelstan clutched his weathered pocket-sized Bible against his chest and remained stretched out along the length of a musty vinyl booth. A far cry from home.

But nowadays, home was wherever the Lord saw fit. He’d managed to stay alive this long. That had to mean something.

Didn’t it?

Exhaustion was an insistent weight upon Athelstan’s eyelids, and he had no memory of the moments before sleep finally consumed him.

_Crack_.

Athelstan snapped his eyes open, but knew better than to move.

_Crunch_.

His hand searched out the dagger pressed warm against his thigh, within its holster. His heart pounded louder than the rain.

He suddenly wished he hadn’t chosen a booth so near to the main entrance. A table had been shoved in front of the swinging front door for a useless sense of security, but it of course would not stop the dead.

_Creak_.

The sound of weight leaning against the door. Testing.

Athelstan held his breath and prayed. Sweat prickled his brow.

Without further warning, the door splintered inwards with a mighty, thunderous cleave of an axe.

_Living people!_

Athelstan rolled and dropped beneath the table, wedging his lanky limbs between the two booth seats.

The door was coming away in violent chunks and shards, spraying splinters across the floor. Athelstan couldn’t tell if it was himself shaking or the building. Both.

The remainder of the door scraped open with ease.

Silence prevailed.

Athelstan refused to breathe. His lungs burned.

A soft voice drifted in, almost sweet, yet undoubtedly masculine.

_“Sweep the area.”_

And in Norwegian, at that. Athelstan only knew a little from hitchhiking through Europe during his university years, but it was enough. He’d always caught on to languages fast.

Then the room was filled with footsteps. Athelstan tried to count them as all they filtered in and passed the table, but lost count. More than five men, undoubtedly.

Many men always equaled dangerous men. Athelstan knew this.

A few minutes crept on like an hour, before the same honeyed male voice said beneath the rain, “Let’s find the booze, boys.”

A chorus of laughter followed, and it was as if life had returned to the world again.

This man had brought back laughter.

Old pint glasses clanked and crashed as the men rummaged through the bar for remaining liquor. An almighty cheer rose up as one of them apparently discovered half a bottle of Jack, and Athelstan couldn’t help but smile to himself over the joy he had not heard in months, perhaps years.

These people acted like fear could not touch them.

Hours dragged deep shadows across the floor, leeching into the deep night. The rain continued its steady drum. Athelstan’s back ached, his neck pinched sharply.

He had to pee.

And yet, the celebrations continued. Despite the ever-impending danger of the outside world, they sang. They pounded fists on tables and colored the air with orange lamplight.

Over time, Athelstan grew to differentiate between a few voices.

Ragnar was the oddly melodic voice. He didn’t speak much, but when he did, Athelstan found his tone soothing, like a lullaby. Rollo was deeper. He’d drank more than anyone, judging by the slur of his words. Floki was… He sounded vaguely unhinged. He talked the most, his words tripping over each other in their haste. His laugh reminded Athelstan of a jackal or hyena, and was just as unnerving.

He made out a few as yet unnamed women, a handful of other men.

Finally, _finally_ , Athelstan’s invaders quieted. Conversation became jumbled and sparse, and trickled down to snores.

Athelstan shifted slightly, pulling his bony knees to his chest and dropping his brow against them. He allowed his eyes to fall shut.

He just might make it to morning.

“When _will_ you come out, little mouse?” said the soft, lilting voice in English, accented with the color of his homeland.

Athelstan’s head shot up and cracked on the underside of the table. He bit off a curse and felt his face go up in flame.

“It would almost certainly be in your best interest to introduce yourself.”

Athelstan chewed the inside of his cheek and considered his options.

It turned out that being trapped under a table, surrounded by drunken ruffians didn’t leave many options.

Releasing a shaky breath, Athelstan watched a pair of battered, black leather boots, the laces errantly knotted and mangled, approach with slow, stalking steps.

“I can hear you breathe, little mouse,” the man who was Ragnar sing-songed.  
Suddenly, his voice sounded less like a lullaby and more like a siren’s deadly melody.

Athelstan swallowed hard.

“Don’t kill me,” he said quietly, his voice a pathetic rasp from disuse.

“Well, that all depends, doesn’t it.”

“Uh… On?” Athelstan said breathlessly, refusing to evacuate his hiding spot.

“Oh, this and that,” Ragnar the stranger said, with what sounded like a smile.

“That’s not… exactly comforting.”

Without warning, Ragnar dropped to a crouch before the table and dipped his head to peer underneath.

All Athelstan could focus on were those eyes, icy blue and ethereal and Northern Lights.

Ragnar grinned, sharp as cut ice.

“I’m not looking to comfort you. Now come. _Out_.”

Athelstan felt a shiver run through his veins. But Lord, did his back ache. And he really did need to pee.

It took some effort and creaking limbs, but he managed to emerge from beneath the table intact. Athelstan straightened, his muscles protesting as he looked up and –

Oh… _Oh_.

In the dim light of the electric lantern, this man was undeniably gorgeous. Unnervingly so.

“Hello,” Rangar said with a gleam in his eyes. Or perhaps his eyes just naturally glowed like that.

“H-hello. I’m uh –” _Don’t give him your real name!_ “Athelstan.”

Well, damn.

Ragnar blinked.

“Athel…stan. That’s not a name.”

“Neither is Ragnar.”

“Listening in, were you?”

“I hardly had much else to do.”

“Oh,” Ragnar said with a sly grin, “Sassy. I like it.”

Athelstan said nothing, just stared balefully.

“Well… Athelstan.” Ragnar tucked his hands into the pockets of his fitted, ripped jeans, and made a point of eyeing Athelstan from head to toe. “You look strong enough.”

“I’m alive, anyway.”

“That too,” Ragnar said, lips curving, his eyes never wavering from Athelstan’s wary gaze. “How have you lived this long?”

“I – I mean, hiding, mostly.”

“Not a fighter, Athelstan?”

Athelstan hated that he liked the way his name rolled off this man’s tongue.

“I’m more of a thinker.”

“A person can be both.”

“Are you?” Athelstan said dubiously, before he could stop himself.

“Oh, yes,” Ragnar whispered, leaning in. He smelled like leather and blood and pine. “Very much so.”

Athelstan didn’t know what to say to that. Everything about this man screamed danger. The shaved head and the tattoos all over it his skull. The leather clothes. His bruised, scabbed-over knuckles. The axe hooked in his belt.

His eyes. His smile.

Athelstan felt like pray, and Ragnar was the many-clawed creature, ready to tear him to shreds.

“Are you scared, Athelstan?” Ragnar said, his head cocked, the hush of his voice both menacing and graceful, like a funeral hymn.

“Should I be?” Athelstan said, because he didn’t want to tell the truth.

Ragnar considered him for a long moment. He appeared to have no issues with extensive, uncomfortable silences. In fact, he seemed to enjoy watching Athelstan fight the urge to squirm.

Finally, he huffed a soft laugh through his nose and reached out, clapping Athelstan on the shoulder. Athelstan flinched.

“I like you,” Ragnar said jovially. “I think I’ll keep you.”

“I – keep me? Wait, what does –“

Ragnar’s fingers tightened on Athelstan’s shoulder as he yanked him close. They were nearly nose to nose. Athelstan could smell the burn of whiskey on Ragnar’s breath.

“Trust me, Athelstan,” Ragnar all but purred, his eyes boring into Athelstan’s. “You want me to keep you rather than let my people have their way with you when they wake. I’m doing you a favor.”

With that, Ragnar smiled. His eyes were flame-bright.

Athelstan felt faint.

Somehow, this really didn’t feel like a favor.


End file.
